


Aim and Fire

by RockSaltandCherryPie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s08e20 Pac-Man Fever, Kissing, M/M, Wincest - Freeform, bunker shooting range sexy times, sick!Sam, this fic is a tease sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 01:49:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2211168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockSaltandCherryPie/pseuds/RockSaltandCherryPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Dean helps Sam shoot when he’s sick In 8x20. Rating: M</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aim and Fire

"Tell you what, you hit that target, we'll talk about getting you back out there," Dean proposes, handing Sam the gun. Sam takes it, offense evidently creasing his brow. He's pale and his hair's all disheveled, still wearing his sleep clothes. His eyes are glossy and tired, his shoulders more slumped than usual. He shakes when he holds the gun, and Dean sees all of this, sees through everything, and yet Sam insists he's okay. Stubborn bitch.

Sam fires once, twice. The shots resonate throughout the underground shooting range, two loud cracks in dead air. They both examine where they hit, the paper's clean. The two shots are buried in the cement wall.

Dean's about to say something, but more shots go off. Three, four, five.

"Woah, woah! Take it easy there, Al Pacino."

Sam's shaking, desperately trying with both hands to steady the gun. Only one of the shots hit the sheet, skimmed it just at the bottom corner.

"Look," Dean holds Sam's hands down and he breaks the position. "Don't hurt yourself, okay? Now, we're gonna do this but we're gonna take it slow. That second trial hit you a lot harder than the first. I don't know whether it was just more intense, or what..."

"Felt the same..." Sam rasps, voice low. His eyes fall down. "Until the next day."

Dean sighs. His hands are still over Sam's, they're both awkwardly resting them over the gun. "You have to take it easy, man. You can't push yourself too much." Dean leans against the back wall and watches Sam's back. Sam's just looking off at the target, hand still on the gun. His shoulders are tense, back curving under his grey shirt and Dean's grateful Sam's as strong as he is, otherwise it might have been a lot worse. Long legs shift from side to side as he picks the gun up again. Dean opens his mouth to stop him but notices that Sam's taking it slow this time. He stretches his arm out but it shakes again and he's getting frustrated now.

Dean pushes off the wall and comes up behind Sam. There's no doubt anymore that Sam has a fever because he's hotter than hell and it's coming off him in waves. He smells at once sweaty and sweet and uniquely _Sam_. Dean steadies his hand for him, closing his fingers around Sam's, feeling the steel of the gun just underneath. Together their arms stretch out and make a straighter line. Sam's fingers are hot and damp, his arm slack, weak. Dean swallows and his strength steadies the line of their arms.

"You got it, s'all you," Dean says in a low voice, words meant only for Sam.

Sam uses it, aims properly and they both exhale together. The shot is fired and it hits the target right in the silhouette's neck.

"There you go," Dean whispers, and now that the trigger's been pulled it's dead silent. He feels Sam swallow but for some reason Dean doesn't pull away. He wants to tell Sam _it'll be okay,_ and reassure him that they're gonna figure this out, but he doesn't. The closeness makes it impossible to talk but he doesn't want to leave. His hands drift up Sam's arm almost hesitantly, soft cotton dragging up a little under his fingertips. Dean meant to at least stroke his bicep or give him some sort of gesture of consolation, but his fingers instinctively brush over it and travel down to his waist. Sam leans his neck down a little, turning his head into Dean and shutting his eyes. Dean's hand finally rests lightly on Sam's hip, stroking with his thumb like it's the most natural thing in the world and Sam's not moving, not resisting.

Everything's so new that his dick barely has time to process what's going on before Sam's rocking back into it. Dean leans into Sam's neck and breathes him in, heady scent of sticky skin and clean clothes working its way into his senses to wake everything up. Sam's head falls back, exposing his neck and Dean noses in his hair, pulling him in by the hip and opening slack lips against Sam's hot skin.

The gun clamors loudly on the ledge, Sam's dropped it and is encouraging Dean's hand forward with his own.

Dean pulls Sam in again by the stomach this time, kissing his neck and tasting him when his tongue slips through. Sam's hands claw at Dean's and then he turns around to face him, their bodies still glued together and they stumble against the ledge, lips locking and smearing around against each other. Their hips bump and push together, legs slotting between one another just right and Dean feels his cock swelling considerably in his jeans. Sam is equally unmistakably hard between his legs, and he's making little noises of encouragement every time Dean breaks the kiss to nose behind his ear or at the nape of his neck.

Sam holds on to Dean's hips, trying to pull him impossibly closer, like he can't get enough. He claws at Dean's back and Dean'll probably have marks there but Sam's definitely going to have some on his neck so they'll be even.

Dean's overheating, cock straining and head spinning, he's so high on _lust_ that he turns Sam back around and watches him thump eagerly over the ledge. Shaky palms push Sam's shirt up, _finally_ feeling his burning hot skin, and he caresses with his thumbs as they travel up and down. Dean's cock keeps bumping Sam's ass, growing still through two uncomfortably tight layers. He's listening to Sam's breaths and moans coming out fast and aborted, even as he starts to pull down the elastic band of Sam's soft cotton pants. He isn't wearing anything underneath. Dean studies the perfect curve of his lower back and silently marvels at the shape of the dip in his spine. He massages the firmness of his ass and the thin fabric heats up and rubs around. He pulls the elastic down a little but stops when he hears Sam grunt. Sam pushes back into Dean, waiting, but Dean just thinks. Sure, Sam's body is firm and strong and hard and smooth, but he's sick, Dean remembers. His hair's sticking to his face and lips and he's as white as a ghost. _Sammy's sick_ , he tells his greedy clouded mind.

"Do it," Sam grumbles, but Dean just fixes Sam's pants for him and shakes his head.

"No."

" _Dean_."

"No. C'mon," Dean helps Sam up again. "You should be resting."

"Dean, I'm _fine_ _—_ " Sam tries to shake him off but he got up too soon or something because his hands shoot to his head and he winces.

Dean supports Sam back to his room where he sprawls out on the bed, distress evident in his tired eyes even as he shuts them.

Dean's jaw clenches as he curses himself and his stupidity. "I'm sorry..." he offers in a small voice, but Sam's already asleep.


End file.
